17 hours ago
The concept of ‘naseeb' offers a way to stay grounded even when the world refuses to make sense
I still remember the day I left Germany for good. Four incredible years in the heart of Europe were behind me, and ahead of me was a return to Afghanistan – a country I never stopped loving, even from afar. But what should have felt like going home came with a weight of uncertainty.
I went back with hope. Real hope. Afghanistan, despite all its scars, was buzzing with young energy. More than two-thirds of the population is under 25. You could feel the hunger for change in the air – in the packed classrooms, in the cafes full of debate, in the crowded markets thick with the smell of naan and kebabs. There were snow-capped mountains and sunlit orchards but also a fragile kind of optimism holding everything together.
And then, it collapsed.
The Taliban returned. The dream didn't just crack – it shattered. I fled again. This time to Australia. Not just with a backpack but with heartbreak, questions and a strange, lingering word echoing in my mind: naseeb.
In Muslim communities, naseeb is a word people often say when things don't go to plan. A job you didn't get. A wedding that never happened. A flight missed, or a prayer unanswered. 'It wasn't your naseeb,' people say, as if to help you let go.
But what does it really mean?
In today's world – where we glorify hustle, control, five-year plans and endless optimisation – naseeb almost sounds too passive. But it's not about giving up. Not really. In Islamic thinking, naseeb is the paradox of action and surrender. You do your part – fully, fiercely – but you also understand that you're not the only one writing the story.
It's a kind of faith that says: work like it depends on you. Pray like it is absolutely out of your control. And then … let go.
If I've learned anything from watching Afghanistan's story unfold, it's that you can't always steer the ship. This country has seen it all – modern monarchs, Marxist revolutions, a brief democratic experiment, and now a return to religious rule. Every shift came with promises and every one of them left behind disappointment. For many Afghans, naseeb isn't just a saying. It's how they keep going. A way of surviving what they cannot change.
And somehow, within that, there's strength.
There's a verse in the Qur'an that often plays in my mind:'Perhaps you dislike a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. Allah knows, and you do not know.' (Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216)
That line has helped me through displacement, heartbreak and uncertainty. It reminds me that even when everything falls apart, the effort still matters. The fight still meant something.
Rumi, the Afghan-born poet so many of us turn to for wisdom, put it in a way only he could:'Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.'
In that sense, naseeb isn't a chain – it's a kind of freedom. A way to stay grounded when the world refuses to make sense.
Just this morning, sipping coffee on a chilly Melbourne day, I scrolled through Instagram and saw Bollywood director Karan Johar talking about it. 'There are a million people more talented than me,' he said, 'but they might not have been this successful. We are born with a naseeb – something marked in our palm lines and on our forehead.'
He wasn't saying don't work hard. Quite the opposite. His point was: talent and hustle matter – but they're not the whole story.
And it's not just an Islamic idea. In Judaism, there's bashert – destined fate, especially in relationships. Christianity says, 'In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.' (Proverbs 16:9). Hinduism teaches karma and divine timing. Buddhism urges us to act but not cling to outcomes. Across the board, it seems like all these traditions are hinting at the same truth: do your best but don't expect to control everything.
That's a radical idea in today's grind culture. Because society says: if you don't succeed, it's on you. You didn't want it enough. You didn't work hard enough. That belief can be crushing.
But naseeb offers a softer, truer alternative: effort matters – but so does grace.
Now, living far from the place that raised me – and the place that broke me – I still wrestle with the 'what-ifs.' But I'm learning to live with them. To trust that my journey, full of delays and detours, is not wrong. It's just … unfolding.
Khalil Gibran once summed it up very delicately:'Our anxiety does not come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it.'
Shadi Khan Saif is a Melbourne-based writer and journalist
